In Search of Absolution
by BellaEncantada
Summary: Takes place during Edward's tracking of Victoria during New Moon. Opens in Texas, ends in Rio de Janiero, Brazil. Rated T just in case for bar scene, mature themes. Some Spanish phrases, dialogue, translations in Chapter Notes. Edward's P.O.V.
1. Penance

I sit here in a crowded dive in on Sixth Street in Austin, the darkness safely descended, allowing me to pursue the fiend who is bent on destroying my Bella.

Bella. The very thought of the name causes me physical pain. I haven't felt much of that in over eighty years. If I were honest, until Bella inexplicably entered my existence, I hadn't felt much of anything since Carlisle took my life in an effort to save me and fulfill a deathbed promise to my mother.

Like my Bella, my mother was a surprisingly perceptive, intuitive woman. Also like my Bella, she wasn't in my life long enough. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could have helped me navigate this situation I find myself in now. Perhaps she would send me running home to take Bella in my arms, beg her forgiveness, and do whatever necessary to secure her hand. This was assuming of course that she hadn't moved on as I intended her to.

Before the disease took us all, a quick if not merciful executioner, my mother had always expressed the hope that I would find someone. At seventeen, I was more than old enough to begin looking for a woman with whom to share my life. Happy with my father and saddened by her brother's own lonely confirmed bachelorhood, she did not want me to miss the joys that came with sharing complete, total, selfless love. It worried her that I was more amorous of the promises of glory and adventure promised to young men like me at the time. The price for these things seemed simple enough. All I had to do was fight for my country in a war that I wasn't altogether sure we really belonged in to begin with. This was, by all accounts, a European war. Or at least it was until Germany forced our hand by sinking the _Lusitania_. I shake my head as I remember how naïve I was at that time. I had no idea that glory came at the price of surviving horrors, if a man should be so lucky. All forms of immortality have their price. I knew that only too well now. My Bella had known this, too, but had been willing to give her life, to become what I was, in order to share my life with her. To prevent this, and to save her from the harm that my kind pose to her—I had told her many times that she was too desirable for her own good—I had made the excruciating decision to leave her. I could not justify the taking of her soul, or placing her in danger by keeping her in tantalizing proximity to my kind.

In spite of this, I can't justify the look in her eyes, the brokenness, the betrayal, the desperation, the pain, that I had caused with my words. As much as I've tried to convince myself, I can't justify leaving her. Now, after so many months of tracking Victoria, I'm slowly beginning to believe that I can keep her safe. Now, all that prevents me from returning is the knowledge that I betrayed her so fundamentally. Would my sudden appearance cause her joy or break her beyond any hope of recognition?

In my stubbornness, my arrogance in my belief that I knew what was best for my Bella, I have hurt her, betrayed her, and isolated myself from her and my family. I have excommunicated myself from those who love me, with full knowledge of what I am, of who I am. I can't stand the sadness that has become entrenched with a stubbornness matched only by my own in the eyes of my loved ones, especially in Alice's. From their thoughts, I know they respect my decision. I know that they understand my decision. However, the only one who agrees with my decision is Rosalie. She sees my suffering as deserved, the product of my own folly. Perhaps she is right. I had no right to want Bella, to desire her. However, I wish she would admit that I was driven by the same instinct that has driven each of us to find our mates. She had as much right to Emmett, to change him, as I had to want Bella by my side. However, her 'gift' of tenacity, as Carlisle tactfully chooses to call what I see as Rosalie's pigheadedness, prevents her from doing so.

Alice, in contrast, never ceases to remind me, hands on her hips, eyes full of fire, that Bella is destined to become one of us, that my guilt is only causing the two of us and everyone around us pain, and that the decision was made the moment Bella and I saw each other, tritely enough, from across a crowded room. However, things become trite because there is a truth to them. All I'm doing now is fighting what has already been set. The future, Alice says, is fluid enough, but some things are inexorably inevitable. Destiny, the humans call it. Though she will respect my decision and not interfere unless absolutely necessary to, as she puts it, keep me from killing Bella or myself from my own stupidity, Alice will never agree with it.

Perhaps there's a truth to the phrase the inhabitants of this state, with their strange mix of Spanish and English are so fond of using: Qué será, será.

Is there any point, really, to my fighting what Bella and I both have already decided long ago? Is there any point to my prolonging my pain? Is there any point to allowing the sadness and loss that I see and hear especially sharply in the eyes and thoughts of Alice and Esme to settle in even more deeply than it already has?

I know now more than ever that my Bella was not only mine. She was a daughter to Carlisle, a little sister to Jasper and Emmett. Especially to Emmett. She was a daughter Esme never had, one she identified most clearly with. Bella's compassion, selflessness, vivacity, and capacity to love others very much mimic Esme's. She was Alice's best friend, besides Jasper, and someone she could not have loved any more had she the two been born of the same mother. This loss is not only mine. How much longer will I let this go on? How much longer _can_ I let this go on?

I have a begrudging suspicion that Alice is right. This has gotten way beyond ridiculous.

Now, however, I must search for absolution in stopping the being that seeks to destroy my Bella. My breath, unnecessary as it is to my survival, unlike my Bella, catches painfully in my throat. Do I have any right to call her 'my' Bella, especially after having hurt her so? Does she already belong to someone else?

I shake my head, willing the thoughts away, at least for now. Regardless of what _will_ happen, the fact of the matter is something grave _is_ happening. And I need to put this threat in _her_ grave, or into whatever it is that we are interred when we cease to exist. I rummage absently through the thoughts of the humans present in this crowded bar. There are such a variety of them here. Some are older men with nothing better to do. A few are women looking for a partner, dressed to attract, smiling coyly at those they find attractive from the bar, at the corner of which I am perched. To their dismay and disgust, I do not return any of their flirtations. There is only one woman I am interested in, and she, like a few brokenhearted men mourning over lost loves, is the reason I am here, though I doubt any of them are here for the same reason I am. Very few humans—or vampires for that matter—ever choose to patronize a piano bar in search of the monster who is systematically stalking their lost love, bent on revenge, preferably by slow torture. I smirk to myself as I find the humor in the situation, much in the same way my Bella would have. If she were here. If she were with me.

Quite a few of those present are college students—several with black, Magic Marker-rendered 'X's denoting their age inscribed across their hands (according to my drivers' license, I had turned eighteen on June 20 of last year), like mine, a warning to the bartender to serve them nothing fermented on pain of is job—wanting to escape, at least temporarily, the fear of the unknown and feeling that resembles the panic that informs one that one has lost one's footing; nothing will stop to allow one to regain it. They work, flirt, drink, explore, and pray their way to finding their permanent identity, a task they find daunting in this present culture. My world was, I realize now to the credit of those present, much simpler. I can also see how this would be an ideal place to look for distraction. The sounds issuing from the makeshift stage would cause anyone's thoughts to cease, in exchange for one: something resembling "Make it stop!" How on Earth has _this_ ever been dubbed music? I'm not even sure it deserves the appellation of 'noise'. Though several young patrons and the few music agents present agree with me on that point, they choose to 'stick out' this assault on the ears in hopes that the next person on the lineup of rock star hopefuls will be better. It's too bad my mind is not as easily numbed, my senses not as easily assuaged by hope of something better to come, nor my thoughts as easily distracted. What I told my Bella was a lie in its basest form. As if anything could ever distract me from her…

At this point, a new patron enters the bar, a tall, muscular, man with shaggy blonde hair in his mid-twenties whose thoughts are exultantly shouting. He seeks out a friend he had previously arranged to meet here, and they sit across the bar from where I am hunkered down, avoiding people as much as possible. Though the music is loud and the minds here numerous, I can hear the conversation of these comrades with perfect clarity. Through the backslapping, congratulations, and ordering of bowls of Shiner Bock Amber, Brock, as I learn he's called, recounts his newest conquest to his friend, Jon. Though seated, the man fairly struts with rooster-like pride.

Suddenly, the image of 'Vicky' flashes in his head. Her hair is a brilliant shade of red, radiant against it her pale, translucent skin and black, snug turtleneck, complemented perfectly by her tight stonewash jeans and black stiletto boots. She is, quite literally, dressed to kill. Brock's mind fixates on Vicky's face and marvel at her glowing purple eyes. The use of the contacts is _very_ clever, I'll give her that, though how she obtained them I'll never know. Any human who saw the ruby-red eyes set in the sinisterly beautiful face of Victoria _would_ have been suspicious. She would have had to kill the doctor who fit her with the contacts, which, judging by the mysterious disappearance of a certain ophthalmologist by the name of Dr. Vishinu J. Awary, she may well have done. Brock, as I discover is to meet Victoria in a secluded park near the capitol at ten o'clock tonight. Brock thinks that this will be the night of his life, never suspecting that it will be his last. As I get up to take my leave and begin the preparations that for that night, I hear Jon congratulate Brock. I smile ruefully as I realize that Jon has no idea that he has just congratulated Brock on signing his death warrant.


	2. Perdóname, ¿saben Uds que van a la muer

Chapter 2: Perdóname

Chapter 2: Perdóname, ¿saben Uds. que van a la muerte?

The day is dangerously sunny, ridiculously warm for January, even in this sun-drenched state. Though I'm not entirely sure what I am doing, I find myself flying southbound down Interstate 35 toward San Antonio, guarded by windows tinted to the greatest legal extent and grateful for both the distraction from my grief and the freedom to drive at an acceptable speed without fear of attracting attention. If one of Texas' finest were to decide to pull me over for my excessive speed, I would have no choice but to kill him, to risk myself. Now, after having loved Bella, I cannot bring myself to tolerate the killing of one of her kind, especially not an innocent. I feel as if such an action would be, in a sense, killing Bella. And I have a horrible sensation that I have managed to do this already.

I have failed in saving Brock. As made obvious by my pursuit, I have also failed in capturing Victoria. Sensing, with her ever-troublesome gift, my presence in Austin, she had arrived a full hour early to the park that served as the rendezvous point. Brock, sensing his own desire for this mysterious, irresistibly desirable woman, was already waiting, practicing conversation he thought witty. Though I had arrived at about this same time, Victoria is nothing if not quick, and Brock's mind tended to fixate on her physical beauty, rendering his survival instincts all but useless. The scene had been ideal—public enough to prevent me from attacking her outright, yet private enough to conduct a murder inconspicuously. Her prey had been blinded by her exotic beauty, and I had been incapable of killing her in retribution in an equally inconspicuous manner. The kill had almost been too easy for her, as, regrettably, had been the escape. I hated her for this. With each failure, I feel as if I were failing Bella once more, hurting her all over again. I was failing to protect her, failing to stop the gratuitous murder of her kind by mine, and failing to even begin to stop the sadistic female bent on my Bella's slow, torturous death. The sensation is almost too much to bear.

Again, my breath catches in my cold throat. Though the breath itself is unnecessary, its sudden catch is nonetheless painful. My eyes sting in a way that informs me that if I were capable of tears, I would be silently shedding them now. The loss of my love has rendered me all but useless. I continue to exist, it seems, for the sole purpose of protecting her and preventing my family from feeling yet another loss. Though I have no illusions about my place in the family—I don't imagine myself to be a key member by any stretch of the imagination—I do know that with our constancy, my kind forms bonds that are embedded into our very souls, if Carlisle is right and we actually have such things. This is even stronger with our mates.

Selfishly, I wonder if this is true for Bella. I want her to move on, because it is what is best for her. I must believe this, or my leaving her will be unpardonable, if it isn't already. I hurt her. More realistically, I had destroyed her. I knew that the moment my words hit her ears like a slap in the face—sharp, insulting, and completely unexpected. Her eyes had changed then; the spark had left them. I could only hope that she had found the strength, or, barring that, someone to put it back in for her. I check my rearview mirror as a habit borne of repeated tenures in driver education classes. In reality, if anyone were coming, particularly a police officer, I would hear them before they could make note of my excessive speed. As I do so, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection, instinctively hating the face I see there. I am a liar, a blasphemer of the worst possible sort, and now truly the stuff of Bella's nightmares. I press down the gas and propel myself toward what I hope will be my absolution.

I can't shake the idea that Alice is right. I laugh ruefully to myself as I admit to myself that my sister is rarely ever wrong. To my own detriment, I rarely listen. During our last conversation, Alice had told me that she had no idea why I sought forgiveness by tracking Victoria when it could be found by simply running, quite literally, back to Bella. It's ironic, really, how everyone, humans and vampires alike, seem to go searching for what they hold in their own hands. Or in my case, I should say _held_.

I am a fool. I should turn the car around, drive like hell to Dallas, catch the next flight to Seattle, and run as fast as my immortal body will propel me to Bella's side, vowing to never leave it again. If I were able to do so without drawing attention, I would run. Humans are much more observant than many of my kind give them credit for, and I doubt very much that I could make the entire run across the western United States without attracting attention. However, before I do, I _must_ destroy Victoria before she succeeds in removing my Bella from this life as a punishment to me—I may have fooled Bella, but Victoria knows that the bond between the two of us will always be an integral part of me. I _must_ remove this danger from Bella's life. I refuse to bring danger to her doorstep once again. This task, I know, is part of my penance.

Interrupting my penitential reverie, I reach the city limits sign of San Antonio. I point my car in the direction of my hotel—the Hyatt Place—which is situated just close enough to downtown that I will be able to detect if anyone has seen Victoria (her appearance isn't exactly what anyone, human or vampire, would call _inconspicuous_) but far enough away that I will hopefully not draw the attention of Victoria's gift for evasion. Or at least I hoped. I promised myself, and Bella, that I would do everything possible to prevent another murder. My speed slows, and I begin to observe the city.

San Antonio is a beautiful city that I'd traveled to before with Carlisle, shortly after Esme joined our family. Though brief, the stay had allowed me to witness a beautiful interplay of Mexican, American, and Native American culture. Bored with the strict, predictable tedium of my upbringing, I had been amused to actually find myself surprised by the thoughts of these people. Albeit entrenched in what Americans affectionately, or at times condescendingly, depending on the tradition of the speaker, referred to as "the South," San Antonio had provided a relatively safe environment against the armies that were a way of life in this part of the country. The atmosphere here was warm, inviting, and titillating to my heightened senses. The openness of the people and their habit of gathering into decidedly large groups made any real kind of hunting more difficult than other cities, given that one did _not_ desire to attract attention and thus provoke the Volturi. It was a place that I had intended to take my Bella someday.

Bella. My mind focuses as I take my one bag into my room. Though I have no need of sleep, I do have a need to remain inconspicuous, and, when the increasing need dictates, a safe place to mourn. I settle my things, gather my wits, and, not wanting to fight for a parking spot, call a cab for the fifteen-minute ride into downtown, Again, I entrench myself in a well-populated nightspot, this time a Mexican restaurant with live entertainment, ordering a glass of water that I slip slowly to maintain my guise. The music is slightly more tolerable than that displayed in Austin.

Before long, yet another young man comes into the restaurant to meet his friend. This female enjoys playing with her food before she finally devours it. It's a disgusting practice, made all the more sickening by the fact that her prey is _human_—a fact that I'm all the more sensitive to because of my Bella. Of course, there aren't exactly bound tomes explicating proper etiquette for these situations, and I very much doubt any older vampire has ever admonished a neophyte not to play with his food. If the situation weren't so horrible, this would be comical. Dark humor seems to be a specialty of mine as of late.

The young man, Guillermo, makes conversation with his friend Baudelio. His thoughts all too similar to those of Brock, differing, really, only in language, Guillermo relates the story of the _señorita caliente_ he has managed to secure a date with. Because of her translucent skin and utter lack of any Spanish vocabulary whatsoever (most residents of this city have at least a smattering as a result of living here), Guillermo assumes that "Vicki" is a tourist. He is to meet her at midnight under a secluded bridge on the River Walk. Foolishly, he invites Baudelio to meet this woman, which Baudelio is all too happy to do. Perhaps, Guillermo says suggestively, this woman will be _una señorita atrevida_. The men clap each other on the back and order a celebratory shot of tequila, toasting their own impending deaths.

Leaving my water glass only slightly less empty than when I sat down, despite the intervening hour, I get up, tip the bartender generously, and make a quiet exit. I have much work to do tonight.


End file.
